


Ropes and Rotten Hearts

by ashkatom



Series: FBaTNverse [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You should have expected this, really, you tell yourself. Sex on the table is Mindfang’s idea of a good party. Warnings for bondage, breathplay, and mentions of rape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ropes and Rotten Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Filling Blanks and Taking Names](https://archiveofourown.org/works/338979) by [ashkatom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom). 



> Slots into chapter two of FBaTN. And I'm just gonna repeat the warnings in case you missed them: bondage, breathplay, and mentions of rape.

Something silent passes between you and Mindfang the first time you see her after death. She’s had her arm replaced with a prosthesis that’s almost as battered as the rest of her. The hem of her coat has been stepped on a thousand times and is tattered past seviceable. Her hair, if anything, has gotten even more dishevelled, but when she flips it, it brings back all the same memories.

Her one good eye meets yours through your glasses, then her attention is drawn by Rosa, unceremoniously shoved behind you. Her wax-blue lips curve up in a smirk, and she takes a step forward, only to meet the edge of your blade.

Here’s the new world, same as the old world.

\--

Rosa disappears as soon as you lug Mindfang across the threshold. Any other time, you’d follow her, but Marquise Spinneret Mindfang is dangerous. You tie her to a chair, tie the chair to Rosa’s table, then sit opposite her, your canesword balanced across your lap.

You should have asked Rosa how long whichever toxin she used would knock Mindfang out for.

After the first fifteen minutes you’re too bored to sit still any longer.

You let yourself touch your kismesis. Former kismesis. Kismesis.

You run your hands through her hair first, gently, almost like a matesprit. Pulling her bangs away from her face reveals the eye that Pyralspite burned away. Her horns have more notches and scrapes in them than you remembered existing, and practically all you ever did was observe when it came to finding and apprehending the scourge of the seas.

The skin of her face is rougher than it was, though her lips feel the same as ever, thick cerulean lipstick that wouldn’t come off if you took paint remover to it. You follow the curve of her neck, dig your fingers under her shirt and coat, and feel the seam where her false arm joins to her shoulder. It’s neat and smooth, good workmanship and good materials. Good surgery. A lot of people owed her favours, you suppose.

She shifts a little, licks her lips, and lets out a word that sounds like “some.” Some what?

You remove your hands and sit back down in your chair.

\--

When she wakes up the first thing she does is tug at the rope around her wrists. She runs her tongue over her lips to distract you, flicking her hair back over her ruined eye with a shake of her head. You watch her from your chair, unmoving, unimpressed.

“Just like old times, eh, Redglare?”

You run a finger along the blunt edge of your canesword and look down at it. “You unable to escape by your own means and trying wildly to cover it up while I sit and laugh? Sounds about right. Would you like me to start an interrogation to give you a little more time to feel out those ropes? For old times’ sake.”

She pulls at the ropes, then moves her free hands into sight and wriggles her fingers absurdly. “Already free, Neophyte! Sloppy knotwork. I expected better from you.”

You sigh and rest your chin on your hand. “Who cares, Spinneret?”

She sighs in return and bends down to untie the ropes around her ankles. “Really, why did you even tie me up if you were just going to let me go free? You’re a poor legislacerator, Redglare.”

“You’re not free,” you say flatly, and jump over the table, knocking over her and her chair. You land in a crouch over her with your sword at her throat. Before she can take her dice out of her sylladex, you slap her across the face open-handed. It’s a loud blow, but not painful, more to humiliate than to hurt.

Mindfang bucks her hips and manages to flip the two of you over, although your canesword scores a long blue line down one cheek as she does so. Then she slams your hand down against the floor and it skitters out of your reach.

You look up at her impassively, knowing she can probably see the shadows of your eyelashes behind your glasses. “Now what, Spinneret? Are you going to tie me up and run away? There’s nowhere to run to. No distant shore to reach. Nobody to plunder. You’ve lost. Justice is served.”

She leans down and kisses you, catching your bottom lip between her teeth and biting down until you feel her fangs break your skin, leaving sores that will irritate you for days. When she pulls back, satisfied at having dealt with the problem of shutting you up and ignoring the problem of you being right, you spit teal blood in her face.

“You know I’m right,” you tell her, almost in a sing-song. Your pulse is roaring in your ears and you couldn’t stop yourself if you tried. It’s a good thing Rosa cleared out. “No matter what you do to me, I’ll still be right!”

Mindfang’s mouth curls into a gleeful grin. “And you’ll still be dead!” She grabs the collar of your jacket with her robot arm and stands, hauling you up with her. She was strong before, but the prosthetic arm has sheer power behind it, and you have to stand on your toes because Mindfang doesn’t realise how tall she is.

It reminds you a lot of being hanged.

She shoves you backward and you crash back onto the table, the edge hitting the backs of your legs in a way that you can already feel bruising. You fall back flat along the surface and automatically scrabble for a weapon, but there’s only Rosa’s chairs, and explaining how you broke one would be rather awkward for all involved.

Mindfang pulls off one of your boots, and you kick her in the face while she goes for the other one. You miss her nose, unfortunately, but with any luck she’ll have a black eye. She snarls at you and rips off your other boot, almost taking your foot with it.

You peel off your leggings before she can and throw them in her face. There’s a thin film of genetic material on them that managed to soak through your underwear, and she licks it up. “Bit desperate, Redglare? Not getting any attention from your flushcrush?”

You take off your vest and throw it at her too. 

She laughs and drops your clothes, then sheds her own coat and crawls over you, long legs and spindly grace. “What you have to do,” she says, drawling as she shoves a knee between your legs and grinds into you, “is just cuff her to a wall! She’ll be begging for it eventually. The two of you are quite similar, actually!” She pins your hands down and runs her tongue, slick and sinful, along the neckline of your shirt as she ruts into you.

You headbutt her. Still no breaking of her nose, unfortunately, due to the angle, but it gets her attention. “Don’t talk about Rosa that way,” you tell her, deadly serious.

She stares down at you then laughs incredulously, eight short bursts in a staccato rhythm that sets your teeth on edge. “You really are flushed for her? I never thought I’d see the day!” Her one visible eye narrows. “How does it feel, knowing I ruined her before you ever even knew her?”

You wrest an arm free and claw at the skin under her shirt, digging in your nails until Mindfang  hisses and you’re sure you’ve drawn enough blood to make your point. When she slams your hand back down against the table cerulean tips your fingers. “She’s not ruined!” you snarl. “You’re the one fucked in the head, Spinneret!”

She purses her lips and tilts her head. “Probably.” She knees you in the stomach and winds you, leaving you coughing and sputtering, trying to curl up around yourself. “Isn’t that what you’ve always liked about me, though?”

Before you can get your breath back and respond, she slides down your underwear, scoring thin lines into your legs with her nails the whole way. She bites her way back up, leaving spiderfang marks in pairs, making you gasp and flinch with each one. You dig your hands into her hair and twine strands around your fingers, then squeeze your hands into fists and drag her up until her face is level with yours. Your heart is pumping, and Mindfang’s chest is rising and falling quickly with her breath. There’s a moment in which you two just look at each other, then you meet somewhere in the middle, not sure if you’re kissing, snarling, or biting.

She rolls her hips against yours and rips your shirt off over your head, leaving it dangling off your arms as you gasp and jerk up into her. Your head tilts back, and her hands go to the scar that circles your neck. She lowers her mouth to one breast and sucks, and you draw in a sharp breath just as her hands wrap around your throat and squeeze.

You panic. It is not your finest moment. You faced your death as stoically as one can face their own death, but you also got lucky and got a quick snap instead of a drawn-out suffocation. This reminds you of what could have been, just you and Mindfang and not enough air. You try to breathe through your nose, but your windpipe is completely blocked off.

You dig your nails into her wrists, but she just laughs and kisses you lightly, not a hint of teeth to be found. Her knee is between your legs again, and she rubs against you, pushing against your nook and setting your nerves on fire. The waves of pleasure rushing through you make you forget that you can’t breathe, and you keep choking against Mindfang’s hands. She kisses you insistently in rhythm with her leg pressing against you, and dimly you think that soon your lips will be as blue as hers, even as you kiss back.

You figure that this is getting a bit much when your vision starts to fuzz around the edges. There’s not much strength left in you to do anything other than lie there and somehow groan past Mindfang’s hands, but you still tug weakly at her hands around your throat.

She lets go just as white sparks begin to dance in your vision. You are incapable of movement, coughing your vocal chords out, and painfully turned on. Mindfang pulls away for a few long seconds to pull her own leggings off, tearing the left leg with her nails. You recover in enough time to sit up and drag them off the rest of the way, and keep them as you pull off the rest of her clothes.

Then you rip the leggings in half (Rosa would be disappointed in you), use one leg to tie up her hands more securely than you did before, and wrap the other leg around her throat before pulling it tight. Her protests cut off suddenly, and you can see her throat working behind your impromptu garrotte. She works the rope around her wrists, glaring at you the whole time and making garbled noises of rage.

You tug on the garrotte, lay her flat along the table and lie on top of her, pulling the rope around her neck tight as you settle your weight down on her. She moans and wraps her legs around you, trapping you against her and twining her bone bulge around yours. You shudder and slacken your grip on the rope, then pull it tight again halfway through her taking a breath.

She doesn’t panic, like you did. If anything, there is a challenge in her eyes and the way she moves her hips. She tilts her head, exposing her neck, acting like she is unaware she needs air to live. You growl, take the end of your garrotte in your teeth to keep it pulled tight, and dig your nails into her shoulders and neck as you thrust into her.

She moans like she’s the star of some late-afternoon blackrom flick with too much nudity and arches into you, all breasts and hips and legs. You shove her back down with your entire body, dig an elbow into her stomach to keep her there, and set a rhythm that has her legs tightening around you with every push and curl of your bone bulge into her nook. Her lips part eagerly when you trace them with your thumb, and you scrape at them as she tongues your fingers, clearing away scratches of cerulean to reveal black underneath.

You can tell she’s given up on pretending she doesn’t need to breathe when she starts trying to meet you again, and this time you let her, lowering yourself so your stomach rubs along her bulge. The legging around her throat is stretched to breaking point, and so are you, as you make little gasps of pleasure just to taunt Mindfang and let her know you can breathe. She bites your shoulder as she comes, flooding blue over you and leaving teal indents in your shoulders. You’re not far behind, and you leave matching nailmarks in hers.

You collapse on top of her, your arms no longer up to the task of holding you up. She reaches up, loosens the noose around her throat, then shoves you off of her and pushes herself off the table. You should have expected this, really, you tell yourself. Sex on the table is Mindfang’s idea of a good party.

\--

It takes you twenty minutes to get dressed and clean up, elbowing each other out of the way and kicking each other’s ankles in exhaustion. When the table is clean enough to eat off and not raise eyebrows, you take your seat, she takes hers, and you both recline in your chairs like nothing happened.

Finally, Mindfang snorts. “You’re not very good at providing incentive for me to not talk about your flushcrush horribly, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re the one who’s going to have to tell her that we just pailed on her table.”


End file.
